


my bed's too big for just me

by fshep



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Banter, F/M, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:13:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fshep/pseuds/fshep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: cassarric, where one of them gets frisky at the tavern and just cannot keep their hands (among other things) off the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my bed's too big for just me

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on tumblr about a year ago; I did a little editing and decided to post it here, too!

_Varric_  started it. He should not look so shocked by the gloveless hand that rests at the center of his thigh.

At her side, he tilts his head, eyebrows lifting in a silent question.

Feigning ignorance, she comments, “It seems as though the Inquisitor is keen on finding any excuse to throw some kind of party.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, but after a moment, he relaxes. “Can’t  _all_  be doom and gloom around here. Morale’s a fickle thing, but they’ve got it by the reigns.”

Cassandra’s eyes flicker about the crowded table. There are scant few who have chosen to pass up the celebration. She’s not even entirely sure  _why_  they’re celebrating. A birthday, perhaps? Everyone seems to be around the same level of absolutely _hammered_ , rolling with laughter and mirth.

Grudgingly, she says, “I must admit, I prefer to see  _this_  over their mourning.”

“Really? And here I thought you fed off of others’ grief.”

He’s joking, and it’s nothing out of the ordinary, but she gives him a pointed, dull glare, and a squeeze of her hand. Barely noticeable, but his breath  _catches_  and she feels such a rush of smugness, she has to hide a smile behind the rim of her tankard.

“Only yours,” she replies as soon as she’s swallowed.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he mutters under his breath. She has to purse her lips together to keep herself from laughing.

Varric must take note of her good mood, because he doesn’t offer any other complaints.

And he  _shouldn’t_. Not  _ten minutes_  prior had he been thumbing at her waist, her back, and skimming skilled fingers over the soft nape of her neck, tracing the areas he’d kissed so tenderly the night before.

He brought this upon himself.

She crosses her legs and shifts, and  _Maker_ , she hasn’t felt so—active—in  _years_. Since Regalyan, truly, when they were young and their relationship fleeting. As a grown woman, too old for flirtations under the table, she should feel embarrassed.

And yet, she does not. Because Varric’s eyes are bright, just as they were when he confessed that he hasn’t felt an essence of  _home_  until he’d been with her—not since Kirkwall. A brief conversation with Hawke, many months ago, had enlightened Cassandra, despite the exchange lasting only a few words.

_“He’s different,” Hawke had said, sounding guilty. “And it’s because of what happened at Kirkwall, I know. There’s a part of him I’d love for you to meet, but I fear it’s on permanent vacation.”_

She’d brought it up to Varric, once, who’d shook his head fondly and began to tell stories of the ridiculous shenanigans that he and the Champion’s crew had partaken. At first, she thought that he’d been trying to avoid another interrogation, but the more he spoke, the more she understood. The Varric in Kirkwall had a family. Support. A place to call his own.

It’s nearly impossible to find enjoyment out of a situation that could mean the end of all of Thedas, should they fail. Yet, he has tried. And if he truly does feel the same as Cassandra, they’ve succeeded.

There’s a considerable lightness in the line of his shoulders, a spark of mischief and _life_  keeping his expression so entrancing. He looks at her like  _she’s_  the reason he’s still going and it causes the tips of her fingers to twitch, restless to touch the expanse of him.

As it is, she only has access to his lap—unless she wants to forfeit every ounce of dignity she has.

Slowly, casually, she draws the flat of her palm toward the inside of his thigh, fingers expanding with a flex and stretch. She continues to carefully observe his expression, searching for the signs she’d learned to look for during their many games of Wicked Grace.

Unfortunately, Varric was the one that taught her the tricks of that particular trade. He has a composure well kept; he scoops up his ale and turns to have a conversation with  _Cole_.

Affronted, she tactlessly cups his crotch, causing him to choke. With concern, Cole prattles on about the potential of drowning via drink, and how it’s not Varric’s time to go, not yet, when he’s got so much left to do—left to _experience_.

“That’s reassuring. Thanks, kid.”

Her hand ventures toward his length and steadily grinds down her palm, reveling in the feeling of him hardening beneath her touch. Her fingers are restless, however, trailing along his thigh to press at the inseam of his trousers, or back up at the table to ensure that nobody asks any questions about why Cassandra’s arm is glued to her side.

She can see that he’s getting fidgety, struggling to keep his attention on his chat with Cole. Finally, the spirit seems to have caught onto something and abruptly stops speaking. His hollowed eyes flicker to Cassandra.

Oh,  _Maker_ , no.

“Are they drunk enough to stay ignorant?” asks Cole, voice lilting with Cassandra’s buried consideration. “The floors are hard, cold; sore knees are worth the satisfaction—”

“Cole!” Cassandra seethes, horrified.

“By all means, go on,” says Varric, cheeky.

She slaps him on the shoulder. “Varric!”

“Yes, dear?” he drawls. This is payback, she knows, and he’s lucky she’s grown so fond of him. ( _She’s_ lucky that he has grown so fond of _her_.)

It’s not as though she’d intended to  _act_  on the idea—not _here_ , anyway. The thoughts were merely fantasies, and she has more than enough common sense to know that not everybody in the room is blind to their romantic and sexual tension. Cassandra and Varric’s relationship is no _secret_ , after all, not with how quickly word travels through Skyhold.

Huffing, she rises from her seat and stands with as much grace as her tingling body allows. “We’re retiring for the night.”

“Are we?” he echoes facetiously.

In response, she grabs his collar and yanks him out of his chair (with less magnitude of strength and more of Varric’s eager acquiesce). And for all it looks like he’s a man on death’s row, he’s clearly looking forward to the  _execution_.


End file.
